52/424: Coma Coma Coma Coma Coma Chameleon
May. 3rd, 2026 02:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphSurely it's not unreasonable that I skipped dinner again Saturday night and just ate four Oreos and five slices of Havarti. I did get my dishes done, just in case I did want to cook something, but then my energy was gone. And I did eat that Kind almond and cranberry bar earlier, so that counts as almost food. Plus I slept a lot... I mean a lot... over the last couple of days, so it's not like I need all that much food for energy.
True my brain has been running like a hamster in a wheel, getting nowhere, but my body might as well be in a coma, for all the exercise it's getting. In a few minutes I'll be getting even less exercise than I do by hitting the keys I'm using to write this, because I'll be going to sleep again. That means I'll be getting a piece of bedtime chocolate, which will provide all the energy I'll need if my dreams get energetic.
They probably won't, though. There might not even be any dreams. I've got the feeling that these days I just disconnect from the world altogether when I sleep. That's why I have no idea where I am when I wake up. Reality just doesn't have much of a grasp on my mind anymore. And why would it? There isn't even any dinner in it now.
Sunday Verse
by Edward Hirsch
Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible
arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.
I love the way that the sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,
palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.
And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.
Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music
of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests
We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds
and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.
True my brain has been running like a hamster in a wheel, getting nowhere, but my body might as well be in a coma, for all the exercise it's getting. In a few minutes I'll be getting even less exercise than I do by hitting the keys I'm using to write this, because I'll be going to sleep again. That means I'll be getting a piece of bedtime chocolate, which will provide all the energy I'll need if my dreams get energetic.
They probably won't, though. There might not even be any dreams. I've got the feeling that these days I just disconnect from the world altogether when I sleep. That's why I have no idea where I am when I wake up. Reality just doesn't have much of a grasp on my mind anymore. And why would it? There isn't even any dinner in it now.
Sunday Verse
For the Sleepwalkers
by Edward Hirsch
Tonight I want to say something wonderful
for the sleepwalkers who have so much faith
in their legs, so much faith in the invisible
arrow carved into the carpet, the worn path
that leads to the stairs instead of the window,
the gaping doorway instead of the seamless mirror.
I love the way that the sleepwalkers are willing
to step out of their bodies into the night,
to raise their arms and welcome the darkness,
palming the blank spaces, touching everything.
Always they return home safely, like blind men
who know it is morning by feeling shadows.
And always they wake up as themselves again.
That's why I want to say something astonishing
like: Our hearts are leaving our bodies.
Our hearts are thirsty black handkerchiefs
flying through the trees at night, soaking up
the darkest beams of moonlight, the music
of owls, the motion of wind-torn branches.
And now our hearts are thick black fists
flying back to the glove of our chests
We have to learn to trust our hearts like that.
We have to learn the desperate faith of sleep-
walkers who rise out of their calm beds
and walk through the skin of another life.
We have to drink the stupefying cup of darkness
and wake up to ourselves, nourished and surprised.
